Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  “I think in Sturbridge Village,” he said, stroking the lamp. “I can’t be sure, but maybe there. Anyway, I never forgot it. My Lord, here it is, I just can’t believe it.”

  She flicked the price tag. “It’s more than the coffee table,” she said, scandalized.

  “I don’t care, it’s mine.” He eyed the tag, which read $295. “Wow. Well, what did I expect? I’ll take it,” he told the man who, sensing a sale, had come toward them.

  “Do you deliver?” Christine asked.

  “Oh, yes. Any Manhattan address, that is.”

  “If we took it with us would there be any concession on the price?”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry, but — ”

  “Gasoline saved should be a consideration, I can’t help thinking,” she pressed. “Time, too. The city tax would amount to almost twenty-five dollars. I hate to be a bore, but do you think you could let us have it for — well, say, $275?”

  “You must realize our profit margin isn’t the highest,” he said, but hesitated.

  “Yes, I know,” She turned to Jack. “The coffee table’s only $265,” she reminded him. “And this is, after all, simply a lamp.”

  “We are having a sale next month,” the salesman said quickly. “I suppose I could stretch a point.” He lifted his shoulders. “Very well, $275 if you take it out of the shop now.”

  “Okay, Jack?”

  “Yes, please,” he said, and behind the man’s back made a face at her. “Never mind,” she whispered to him as they went to the service desk. “We saved the tax, which is nothing to sneeze at.”

  They rode back to Jack’s place in a cab, with the lamp between them on the back seat. He carried it up the stairs like a baby, set it down on a new end table, got out a three-way bulb. Then he plugged in the lamp, turned it on and he had that strong, white light he had set his sights on. “How’s that?” he asked her.

  “Lovely, wonderful. I’m so glad you found it.”

  “And now let’s go to Bloomingdale’s and get the coffee table,” he said purposefully. “I’ve made up my mind it’s the one I want. One thing more, but no rush about it, I’ll go looking on my own some. I’ll find it somewhere. A big fruit basket, hand-woven, to fill with dried flowers, those little pale sprays. You know what I mean.”

  “Baby’s breath?”

  “I guess that’s it. I saw a lot of it in Provence.”

  He said, very seriously, “I put aside cash for all this, Chris. Allerton’s still solvent, in case you’re interested.” He switched off the lamp. “Okay, the table and then that’s that, and we’ll get serious about lunch, how’s that sound?”

  Two hours later they were in a booth at Anthony’s. They didn’t even discuss it, just walked over as if it was what they were programmed to do, and went in. Christine had her martini, Jack his Canadian Club. He said, “And it came to pass, on the third day, that John, the son of John, had gathered together all the worldly goods needful for his dwelling and was therefore grateful unto the Lord.”

  A grin. “Not that the Lord enters into it. John the son of John owes present company a debt of gratitude. The Chinese are reputed to say that a person who saves another’s life has the rescuee in his keeping forever. So you see, my life belongs to you, Christine.”

  “Far too much responsibility, I give it back to you, Jack. What did I do except bully a few salespeople? Big deal.”

  “Now that the shopping hassle is over, can’t we think of something else to take my mind off my work?”

  “All play and no work makes Jack a dull boy.”

  “That’s your story. It’s funny, but now that I have my lamp what I want most is the kitchen chairs. I can’t even tell you why. I guess the kitchen looks unfinished without the chairs. And I didn’t even plan to get any.”

  “A table needs chairs. Now you won’t have to stand up to eat your Cheerios. Also if you have an overnight guest you’ll have accommodations.”

  “Are you trying to sell me on a live-in relationship with some lady friend?”

  “Like the girl you introduced to Rodney?”

  His laugh erupted. “I hope you don’t think I make a habit of passing on discarded loveresses like so many hand-me-down clothes. La Ronde — Jeannie Merrill, God. She’s about nineteen. By the way, how are they hitting it off?”

  “The last I heard it seemed to be fine and dandy. She’s a good stick, he said. I imagine that’s fairly laudatory, you never know with Rodney. It was nice of you, Jack.”

  “I thought it was time he had a whirl with a girl. Jeannie can hold her own, she’s no pushover.”

  “I don’t think she needs to worry about Rodney. He said she lived in the building you were in before Sixty-first Street. Where was it, Jack?”

  “After things broke up I moved to Eighty-fourth, just off York. Not a bad building, in fact it was decent enough when I settled in there. Then it — well, I told you about that. Neglect and greed, it’s the name of the game.”

  “You said the other day that you — well, something about needing friends. I wondered why.”

  “I gave custody of our friends to Phyllis,” he said. “It was the least I could do, I thought.”

  “Oh.”

  He didn’t say where he had lived when he was married. She didn’t know for how long he was married, either. She didn’t want to know anyway. She knew Jack Allerton as he was now, nothing else interested her. He had come into her life randomly. Rodney had come into her life in the same way, as had the women she knew. In a big city that was the way it happened.

  “It’s different in the suburbs, I suppose,” she said.

  “What’s different?”

  “I was thinking about how you meet people. In a metropolis like this. Of course when I was growing up — well, you knew your neighbors and all that. I don’t know my neighbors now. The whole fabric of life has changed. In the cities, I mean. If you live in a suburban area I suppose it goes on the way it always has. Men coming home on the same commuter train, women having coffee at each other’s houses.”

  “I wouldn’t live in the suburbs if you gave me a house rent-free.”

  “I wouldn’t either.”

  “I can see myself mowing lawns.” He shrugged. “Nope. You can have the suburbs, they’re the real pits.”

  “If I were alone, nobody else to think of, I’d like to live in Paris. Say for a year or two, the way Rodney’s doing here. I’d like that. Paris is the most like New York, I think. I’m good enough at the language to get by. You pick it up so quickly anyway. Yes, Paris would suit me very well.”

  “I guess it would be Paris for me too. It’s easy to get around in, it’s a very manageable city.”

  “Do you ever think of shifting bases?”

  “Not really, no. There’s no reason for it. Oh, if you had a fellowship or something like that.”

  “I’m trying to decide whether to have the eggplant or the minestrone.”

  “Hunger pains got you down? Shall we order?”

  “Let’s have another drink first.”

  “I’d like to take you out to dinner sometime,” he said. “Is there any chance of that?”

  She considered. “Maybe sometime, Jack.”

  “All I’ve been able to offer you is drinks, lunch, no fancy-schmantzies.”

  “Why should you offer me anything more than that? Because I gave you a little help with your apartment? You don’t owe me anything, Jack.”

  “That isn’t the reason, but let it go.”

  He flicked his lighter for her cigarette, got the waiter’s attention, ordered their refills. A basket of the bread was brought over with them, the smell of the garlic spicing the air. This was such a pleasant place, Christine thought. She was so used to it. Jack was right. The shopping expeditions were over, there was no reason for them to come here anymore. She hadn’t thought of it before, but she was thinking of it now. It gave her an empty feeling.

  “You certainly opened your checkbook quite a few times in these last few days,�
�� she said. “You spent a lot of money, are you worried?”

  “As I told you, I was prepared to. Remember, I was in a low-rent apartment, able to save. I don’t have child support. Anyway, I’m not really one of life’s unfortunates, in fact rather the opposite. Nothing magnificent, you understand, but I do have a trust fund that was bequeathed to me by a dear old uncle who favored me and that’s what keeps me going, that quarterly check. I would have been bananas to try earning a living solely by my writing efforts and as a matter of fact may have been bananas to chuck the job anyway. I should be holding down a post, its important to be in the marketplace. I know that very well. For a spell, though, it’s good to live without someone breathing down your neck. Time will tell.”

  He smiled at her. “It’s nice of you to give it a thought, Chris. Not to worry, however, I’ll get by. What drives me up the wall is that clock racing by, time and tide coursing ahead, and what have I done for immortality. That’s what wakes me up in a cold sweat in the long and lonely nights. Nobody knows my name.”

  “Give yourself a break, why don’t you. You do tend to flog yourself, Jack.”

  “Just a masochist at heart.”

  “Sometimes yes, I think you are.”

  “Not really. Impatient? Yes. I have my serene moments, though. Too bad it’s not yesterday. Yesterday was Thursday, they were serving the Calamari.”

  “Alas. I’ve decided on the minestrone, though. Yesterday I had lunch with my friends. Five of us, we’ve known each other forever. It’s about the only social life I have.”

  “It’s a lot more than I have.”

  “Well, you’ve got your work.”

  “Yes,” he conceded. “Anyway, I’m not one of those people who need people characters. That is, yeah, I need people in my view, the way I said I liked to face the street when I work, see the passing crowd, know they’re there. But I’m not a glad-hander, I couldn’t care less. I don’t think you are either.”

  “No.” She eyed him. “You said you miss going to an office, though.”

  “Oh, that. Sure — well, it’s actually Calvinistic. You know, you should go to an office. The work ethic. A good day’s work for a good day’s pay. You can work your ass off on your own but somehow it’s not the same thing. You still feel you’re playing hookey. That’s more or less it except, yes, you do get that forlorn feeling sometimes, things are passing you by, the action’s elsewhere. It’s a penalty you have to pay.”

  “As long as it’s worth it.”

  “It will have to be worth it. It’s up to me, that’s the first thing I tell myself when I wake up in the morning.”

  “Is the sneezer still doing his wake-up job?”

  “Hasn’t fallen down on it once.”

  “Haven’t you seen him yet?”

  “Nope. Still a mystery man. I’ve grown very fond of him.” He gestured. “By the way, I meant to tell you. The orange tree’s doing marvelously, did you notice?”

  “No, I guess I didn’t. So it’s healthy and such?”

  “It’s fantastic. I talked to a florist, he told me how much water to give it. It seems to like me, it’s behaving very well indeed.”

  “Glad to hear it. Well, I guess I’m ready for that soup, Jack, how about you? It’s a long time since breakfast.”

  Later, he said he would call her the minute the kitchen chairs arrived, give her breakfast. “Not Cheerios, the works. A big country spread, the way mother used to make. Bring your appetite.”

  “I like my bacon crisp, please.”

  “Eggs how?”

  “Once over lightly.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.”

  They left Anthony’s laughing, went out into the bright sunlight and the clamor on the street, stood smiling at each other. “It was nice,” Christine said. “It’s always nice, Jack. You know, you haven’t let me pay for a single lunch.”

  “You should pay for lunch? After walking your dogs off getting my household problems solved? What kind of a heel do you think I am?”

  “Just the same.”

  “What are you going to do now, Christine?”

  “I have to go to Saks. They’re having a lingerie sale; I want to see what I can find. Very boring stuff, you wouldn’t be interested. Go home and have a love affair with your new lamp.”

  “You like it, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s one of the most gorgeous things I’ve ever seen.”

  “Yeah, me too. Well, then — ”

  He reached for her hand. “I’ll call you.”

  “Do that.”

  “When would be a bad time to call?”

  “Is it your intention to call me at a bad time?”

  “Why — ah, shut up,” he said, and they grinned at each other.

  “Call me in the early evening, why don’t you,” she suggested. “Around five, five-thirty, okay?”

  “Right. Thanks a lot, Christine.”

  “Thank you. Bye now.”

  She walked off in one direction, he in another. She resisted the temptation to look back, though she wanted to. Now he would go home and sit at the typewriter. Maybe he’d work well today, maybe he wouldn’t. She hoped he would.

  It was almost five when she left Saks, with a shopping bag of goodies and a smaller balance in her checkbook. Five o’clock, rush hour, the bus jammed and about 110 degrees Fahrenheit inside. It crawled along. She couldn’t remember what she had scheduled for dinner. The menu, so painstakingly orchestrated for the week, eluded her. They had had beef bourguignon last night, sole the night before. Why couldn’t she recall what she had written down for today? There might be something she should buy on the way home.

  She found herself coolly disinterested. After all, there was food in the house, none of them would starve. If something was needed someone could go out and get it. They were a community of souls, each of which was capable of fending for himself, they didn’t need her to shovel food in their mouths. This should be a happy time of life for her, a time when she could stop thinking of herself as chief cook and bottlewasher.

  Phyllis. His former wife’s name was Phyllis. A winsome name, with echoes of Gilbert and Sullivan, Iolanthe. And now Jack was in his high-ceilinged room, at the desk in the right-hand corner, pounding away at, she hoped, a great rate. Later he would put one of his TV dinners in the oven.

  She didn’t feel sorry for Jack Allerton. It seemed like a very piquant life to Christine. He had his work, an apartment he obviously cherished and he had his freedom. She was inclined to view it as a little bit Puccini, la vie de Bohème. And now here she herself was, after a pleasantly tiring day, going home during rush hour. Sardine time. It made her think, in a nostalgic way, of when she herself had worked in an office and gone home with others of such ilk. The marketplace, as Jack had said, was good for the soul and the psyche. You were part of the forward thrust of things, in it and of it. It was a good life, a worthy life. You called it the salt mines and you griped about the regimentation and you always thought you were underpaid. But you were out there, in the madding throng, one of the movers and the shakers even if it was only in a modest way. She missed it still, even after these long years.

  • • •

  Shopping for a gift for Jack, because of course the plant wasn’t really a gift, just — well, in place of a bottle of booze when she and Rodney had been invited. She would like to find him a fruit basket, since he had mentioned that, but she was pretty sure he had his own ideas about what he wanted, the way he’d had about the lamp. Something “different” was always hard to track down: you only saw something different when you weren’t looking for it. What she meant, of course, was something imaginative, distinctive.

  She didn’t come across it on Saturday, but on Monday, passing a music store, quickly retraced her steps and stood in front of its window again. There it was, just what she had in mind, it couldn’t be more right. It was a print of a sheet of music, a big blowup, the first few bars of Richard Strauss’s Death and Transfiguration. It
took her a second, because naturally the title was in German, Tod und Verklärung. It had been reproduced in all its yellowed and weathered state, and it was enormously impressive.

  She realized that it was part of the window dressing, but she meant to have it, even if it meant waiting until the display was changed. “I have an odd request,” she said to one of the men behind the counter when she went in.

  “If it’s possible we’ll do it,” he said. “If it’s impossible we’ll do it anyway.”

  “It’s the poster in the window, the Strauss page. On the far wall to the right. I’d like to buy it.”

  “Poster?” He looked surprised.

  “I guess it’s part of the display.”

  He went with her to the window. “That? Oh, it’s just a promotion item. I’ll speak to someone in the back. There might be a few more lying around someplace. Wait here, I won’t be long.”

  When he came back it was with something that looked like a parchment scroll which, when unfurled, proved to be the Strauss poster. “So you did have others,” she said, delighted. “I can have this?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “I’m awfully grateful! How much will it be?”

  “No charge. As I said, it’s a promotion ad for Wallace.”

  “It’s marvelous, just what I wanted.”

  “You’re going to frame it? Good idea, it will look nice.”

  “Yes, I think it will. Thanks again, thanks very much.”

  She took it right around to a good frame shop in Lexington, not far from her own building. They showed her what would be suitable for posters and modern art. “Like so, how’s that?”

  “Yes, it’s about what I had in mind. But no matting showing, just the page itself. That’s important.”

  “I understand. For a musician, right?”

  “A music lover. When do you think you’ll have it ready? I’d like it to be this week, he’ll be sticking close to home waiting for other deliveries.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You can’t really promise?”

  “Not a hundred percent, but we’ll do our best.”

  “I’d appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”